


Always Wear Nice Panties!

by Bearfacewean



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Other, Poltergeist sex, Poltergeists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 11:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13974582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearfacewean/pseuds/Bearfacewean





	Always Wear Nice Panties!

Now, how’s this for a crappy situation?

            I want to make this clear, _I_ was the victim, me.  Not her.  I was the one minding my own business while her boyfriend was feeling _me_ up.  I didn’t ask for it!  Sure I enjoyed it and hoped it would happen every night I went to bed but it wasn’t like I had any choice in the matter!  He was a ghost for Christ’s sake!  How do you tell a poltergeist that no means no?  I mean, what was I supposed to do?  I thought I was dreaming the first few times.  I thought they were just really, really, graphic, intense, vivid, erotic dreams that ended in an almighty awe-inspiring orgasm.  And when it became a bit clearer that actually, I was getting played with by the invisible man (if the invisible man had no actual flesh or understandable substance to speak of) or a ghost, then as far as I was concerned there were only a few things I could think of to do.  One being, this is absolutely fantastic, let it continue.  It beat any so called kinky blind-fold session I ever had.  I wouldn’t know when or if, how or why it would happen.  Talk about spontaneous.  
            And then little thought number two; say I didn’t want it to continue, that the fact that I was getting an intimate tickling session by a ghost was a little more like getting raped than getting what I’ve been after my whole adult life (a bloody fantastic sex life which at fifty two years of age is about time) then what?  Am I to flail about wildly and punch at the open space that supported the _whatever it was_ with the great fingers?  Was I to run away only to lock myself in another room considering the fact that he was able to walk through doors and walls?  Because he wasn’t in the room to start with and I checked.

            Then moving onto little thought number three; would it make him hostile?  Now, that tongue was somehow warm and wet when it toyed with my pussy and that dick was hard, hot and throbbing.  The hands were firm when it grabbed my tits and gentle when the fingers rolled my nipples.  Am I not to think that those same hands could be firm gripping my larynx and ripping out my throat? 

            Now I’ve never had great sex.  I married twice and both men ended up fat and flat.  Foreplay was something you might read about in a golf magazine and the clitoris was something that women made up to make men feel insecure!  So yes, I’m sorry.  I let him feel me, touch me, lick me, fuck me.  Arrest me officer, I’m guilty as charged.  I’m not saying I’d let any _body_ fuck me, because and I’m sorry for the poor taste of joke, but he had no body so I had no beer belly or back beard to be put off by.

            So each night, I’d be lying there and ridiculous as it might seem but yes, I’m washed, and in pretty lacy underwear and no pyjama bottoms (and I know for a fact that that nosy old cow Martha Fairweather from next door is gossiping and storytelling about my range of kinky panties that hangs from my whirligig.  No doubt I’m a scarlet woman), and waiting for absolute bliss.

            Sometimes I knew he was there from a sensation down at my toes.  I think he had my toe in his mouth.  I could feel my foot being stroked and it would feel tickly but I would will myself not to let it away that I was still awake.  I did that once and it stopped for a whole week.  I would self service myself every night that week hoping that as I lay post self induced orgasm he would come along and do me off properly but it wasn’t to be.  So I would only ever be allowed to moan and breathe very lightly.  My legs would only open and my pelvis rock just enough to show that I was absolutely 100% loving it while pretending to be completely unaware.  Very, very difficult let me tell you.  Upon orgasm, and it was an oh, oh, oh, oooohrgasm, I could not help but make a very significant and triumphant “whooooopeeeee!” noise and bend almost completely in half.  I was left then to shudder and gasp and then make “oh I’m so confused, what a wonderful dream” faces. 

            I mean, this was happening _to me_.  He came _to me_ in the middle of the night.  I could only wonder why.  Was he sexually repressed while alive?  Was he a sex maniac and even after he died, probably of a heart attack from too much fucking, he still had the same carnal urges.  Was he maybe in some kind of hell, only able to pleasure another while he got no release?  I have to admit, I did have a look and feel about the bed to see if there was any ghost-like semen, some fucktoplasm.  If he went it must have squirted into some other ghosty dimension.  Was he maybe an angel from sex heaven, sent by God?  Did he look down upon me standing in the queue of Ann Summers buying my Rampant Rabbit and think to himself; that woman needs a pity fuck, because he really was all about giving.  Or maybe he was one of those fetishist guys who liked to do it to sleeping woman.  I saw that once on a documentary on sex I watched in the hope of some arousing content.

            So yes, I loved it.  I wanted it.  I hoped it would keep happening because apart from the reasons given, I also couldn’t stop it if I wanted to stay in this house and I had searched for this house for a long time.  This was the house I wanted throughout both marriages and now it was just me, a horny ghost and it was wonderful.  Until, of course, when the girlfriend came on the scene.

            One night after a particularly hot session, (I had started taking pretend sleeping pills.  I labelled an old medicine bottle Temazapam just in case he was a hot horny doctor or anaesthesiologist when he was alive) I was lying on my front, legs splayed like a frog mid hop when suddenly he just stopped.  One second he was pumping away, his hands squashed between my breasts and the mattress and the next he was perfectly still, his dick still deep, his fingers still holding my aching boobies and then it was like he was whisked away.  I couldn’t fain sleep because his departure was so sudden and dramatic, his cock was wrenched out of me so directly that I gasped and turned, almost to see where he had gone.

            Needless to say I was left feeling somewhat confused and very unsatisfied so felt some chocolate digestives and hot milk was in order.  So I trundled my still quivering body to the kitchen.

            _She_ was in there and she was very angry.

            Now, tell me this; why is it when the girlfriend or boyfriend walks in on their lover getting it on with another person do they never attack the cheater?  Why do they go for the innocent other party? 

            So like Samara from The Ring movies she comes crawling along the kitchen ceiling.  No “see no evil, hear no evil” with this bitch, no!  She’s all wavering black lines and silver flashes.  I could see the outline of her eyes and her mouth and they were open and shrieking.  She sounded like she was underwater, a raging gurgling spitting curses at me!  So I’m petrified, needless to say, and by the time her shaking, juddering, furious form gets directly above me, I’ve gone and had a heart attack. Well, let me tell you, I didn’t know he had a girlfriend, dead or otherwise so why it should be me that is scared _literally_ to death, yes to the point where I am actually dying, is just beyond me and honestly, a bit extreme.

            So having let out a scream I’m surprised didn’t shatter my windows and laying there, somewhere between a hellish, suffocating, horrified agony and a lighter, floatier, sweeter place, she becomes fleshier.  Her intense colours fade to plain old light beige with hair dyed blond to within an inch of its life and a tight black dress.  Her screams that sounded like something from the pits of hell became a squawkish caterwaul. 

“You fucking slut, fucking old whore-bag.  You get your fat, swollen mitts off my man.” This was then followed by;

“Nicola, for God’s sake!  What are you doing, Nicola?!  Nicola!”  But Nicola was now on the floor and pinning my purple dying body by the shoulders having a massive hissy-fit, apparently completely ignorant of my convulsing physical body and completely unaware of my spectral body floating a few feet above her.  It was him that noticed me.  By this time I’m standing or to be more literal, floating in the middle of the floor, still in my pretty pyjama top and heavily stretched thong panties and he was hunkered down sitting on his ankles in nothing more than what looked like black cycling shorts, his dick still rock hard making a miniature tepee out of lycra.

            Now I’m not going to go into details about my feelings and subsequent actions of seeing my own dying, twitching body but needless to say my attention rather quickly turned to another.  And, yes I know that I’m being a hypocrite because you would think the “person” that I would go for first would be the bitch that just killed me but no.  I went for him…and then she went for me which honestly I think only turned him on, the bastard.

            So what am I supposed to do now?  I’m getting attacked by a shrieking she-bitch I’m lying there, my final breaths are fizzing out of me and the whole thing is happening in very disagreeable circumstances.

            Until a ghost-like face suddenly appears at my kitchen window.

            Martha!  Thank the heavens (if that’s what awaited me) for your being one nosy old cow!  Now small and frail Martha might be but she kicks like a mule and in comes my kitchen door, chain lock and all.  She’s on top of me like a pro, breath, breath, punching down on my chest as if she had actually heard me call her all those horrible names before and was getting her own back.  I even heard one of my ribs break and through flab as thick as mine that’s saying something.  She was obviously really determined.  Meanwhile, those two bastards have finally turned the fight on one another, completely ignoring this crazy scene around them.

            “You fucking, cheating prick!  And with a heffalump too.”

            “You’ve got a cheek you fucking nympho…”

            “Nympho?!  I’m not the one fucking a fat…”

            “Don’t you dare say another word about her, Nicola.  At least fucking her was comfortable, not like fucking you.  I felt like I was going to get a splinter rubbing up and down that body.”

            “Oh so that’s it, the no body thing again.  You don’t do spirits, huh?  It’s not my fault we died!”

            “Back to this, again?!”

            “We’re going to be going over this for all eternity!”

            So meanwhile, Martha has resorted to harsh language and grabbing me by the shoulders to shake the life back in.  Mr Cotton from the other side has heard her screaming and has rushed in and now has the telephone trying to figure out these new cordless phones work.

            “Dial and then press the green phone button, Peter, not the red one, no that hangs up…BREATHE damnit!!”

            So now all I can think about is that clearly, that’s my dead body lying in my nice new kitchen and that yes, Martha, dear Martha has got to me super quick and the ambulance is on its way but, what if none of it works?  What if my scared out of its wits 50-odd year old heart really has given up the ghost, which in hindsight is a terrible joke.

            What if I’m left to roam this house for the rest of eternity?  I can guarantee I’ll be left hovering about this bloody house now too with less than perfect house mates?  He’ll barely be able to look me in the eye and she’s just going to make the atmosphere really uncomfortable.  Eternity is just too bloody long for that kind of childishness.  It’s like; _you_ killed me so bloody well take responsibility for it.  We have to live – in a manner of speaking – together so can we make the best of it please?

            And I have so many questions!  If the whole Christianity thing is real, then my murderer should be sent to hell, but what if an already dead, floating about limbo ghost kills someone?  Is that worse?  And will we always be _around_ one another?  Can we totter off to another plane between the worlds of the living and the dead, or hell in their case because they deserve a bit of a roasting for what they did to me.

            And then what will happen to my house?  Will new people move in?  This is after all a really nice house, newly decorated, good area, close to all amenities.  Am I going to end up a horny ghost too and try to get it on stealth style with the new tenants?

            Ambulance people start pushing their way inside, contraptions and cables and shouting all included.  Completely ignorant, sex god and bitch from hell just casually move out of the way, arguing about whose idea it was for attempting an orgasm through suffocation.  She keeps casting glances at me with a look of pure contempt and he, still with his massive erection, has a look of total embarrassment and apology, which I refuse to accept for as long as I live, which may be, about ten minutes ago.

            But all of a sudden my body jumps up off the floor a clear foot and a half as they pass a crazy amount of electricity through my heart.  Now I’m yelling at my body and I have to admit it, I’m getting pretty hysterical. Another huge burst of electricity pulses through me, sending my body arching into the air and then the strangest thing happens where my floaty self suddenly feels like it’s on a rollercoaster as it tips over the edge and then I’m opening my eyes to see the faces of the paramedics and my body feels like I’ve just ran a marathon.

The rest is a bit of a blur but I was aware of I’m being hoisted up onto a very hard stretcher, whisked away into the ambulance with Martha, Peter and the rest of the street looking on, including two funny wiggly shapes that I saw through the bay windows of my sitting room.

             So, tonight has been pretty horrible.  I’ve been left horny and unsatisfied to the point of needing biscuits and then scared to death by the dead girlfriend of my ghost booty caller.  At the very least I can say I took my mums advice.  You should always make sure you have on nice clean underwear because you never know what may happen and you’ll get rushed into hospital.

            I wonder if he’ll visit me…


End file.
